


To Entice

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Seduction, confessions?, story telling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Why is Sherlock Holmes telling John tales of his sex life?





	To Entice

Why does John have to leave the flat today? Why any day?

* * *

It's become clear to me that John Watson has opened a particular gate to my heart.

* * *

I desire him, lust after him, love him. I don't know how to express this new emotion out loud.

To make matters worse, John has said numerous times that he is not gay. But is he bisexual?  
I note that he tends to regard me as a friend but has a tendency to eye me secretly out of the corner of his eye, staring back at me in the mirror, viewing me over his book when my head is down in my laptop.  
Is he thinking about me in the same regard as I am him?

* * *

He's dressed for work this sunny morning, making breakfast. Eggs, sausage, and tea. He hasn't noticed me by the kitchen door, "Sherlock get your ass in here-," he yells.  
          " Your wish is my command. Oh, wizard," seeing the poor fellow jump, almost dropping the pan of sausages.  
          "Shit, you scared me. Didn't realize you were standing there."  
          "Must you go to the hospital today? Is it that urgent, doctor?"  
Placing the plates on the table, he pushes out a chair and sits taking his first bite, chewing before answering, "of course I have to go. We haven't had a moneyed case to solve in over a month. Someone has to pay for food," sipping my tea.  
          "Food? Not something high on my consciousness," I snort, taking a sausage in my mouth and pushing the rest away.  
          "I know. But I like to eat. It keeps me alive. I don't know how you do it, on the little you put in your body."

* * *

================================================

I have to discover some creative way to show him I'm not that sexually cold person. I gave him that impression when we first met and had, I'm afraid, carried it through these years.  
I now know that my greatest joy would be to have John in my bed. But, I'm not sure he wants that as he avoids all discussion about male encounters. This last year he's not even dated any women. He's content to spend time with me. That's why I suspect his interest in me is more than a friendship.

* * *

This evening John walks up the stairs, footsteps moving quickly, not stopping in the parlor to even admit I'm in existence but turns and heads straight to his room.  
I trail after him, lean on the door frame, and watch him from the open door.  
          "Out to the pub then," a statement, not a question.  
          "Meeting the guys, as usual," his newest jumper over his head, down his torso, turning his head this way and that while looking in the mirror.

* * *

Straightening up, adjusting the purple dressing gown that flows over my trousers to my knees, opening it casually to reveal I have no shirt on, " sifting through old papers and folders today, I discovered an old case I had worked on several years before I met you. It found me unwittingly in bed with a salesman. Did I ever discuss this case with you?"  
His eyes narrow, he looks startled.

He looks back to the mirror to talk to my reflection instead of twisting to face me, "you, in bed? A salesman. You did say, man," choking out those words.  
          "In the strictest interest of solving a crime, of course," swinging around, leaving him standing there and into the parlor, knowing I've peaked his interest.

* * *

He walks into the room, stands behind by his seat, leaning on the back, and confronts me, "never knew you cared about sex," trying to maintain a composure I can tell he doesn't feel.  
          " John, it's not about bodily satisfaction. Solving a murder was the sole reason," noticing him averting his eyes from my naked chest.

* * *

          "You've got me hooked. Tell me. This should be a revelation," sitting in his chair, legs crossed, picking at some nothingness on the arm of the chair.

* * *

          "I had just come in contact with Detective Greg Lestrade and was sat in his office. Bedeviling him about a murder case I had read in the papers. Needed to see the evidence, because I knew the police had it wrong. I was only out of my teens by two years, and the detective gazed at me with surprise at my arrogance."  
John gives out with a snort, "I can imagine you even at a young age. How you must have appeared to Greg. Surprised he didn't have you thrown out."

His sly glances occasionally return to my upper body. I spread my legs wide and see his eyebrows raise; then he looks at his hands.

* * *

          " It took considerable discussion before he caved in and showed me the particulars. The pictures and descriptions of the crime scene did nothing to alter my feeling there was more to this than the police had turned up. I, again after much debate finally gained entrance to the house, which on arriving turned to be an old style turreted house with three floors."

* * *

Pausing in my story, "You would have loved the outside of this mansion. Four turrets attracted my eye at first. Then the grey brick and red shutters gave it even more style."  
          "When has that ever mattered to you? You've never noticed the furnishings in a room except how they are affected by a case."  
          "Oh but I do John. I never see the call to voice it. Too many words. Clutter."  
John smiles and sends my heart to beat faster.

* * *

          "The owner Willliam Hopewell's sister, Rebecca was the victim. The murder had taken place on the second floor in her bedroom.  
Lestrade permitted me to have total command of the house, and upon arriving, I made sure Hopewell kept out of my way. He was not at all happy."  
          "Oh Sherlock, how much did you badger Lestrade and then Hopewell."  
Looking hurt, " I did nothing of the sort. I told them that if they interfered I'd--."  
Chuckling at the inference of what might have been said, "I can imagine the scene. In both instances"

* * *

Looking to prolong this, even more, to have John's full attention, "How about tea. I'm a bit dry."  
The tea made he places the pot and cups on the table, pouring for both of us.  
John's been looking at his mobile at not only the time but the texts coming in, and I can tell he is wavering.

* * *

Do I hear out the end of Sherlock's narrative or join my buddies.  
I sigh and sit back down. I'd be a fool not to hear the ending of how Sherlock wound up in bed. With a man yet.

* * *

Good, I've tempted him away from his friends.

* * *

With cup and saucer in hand, I take a sip and another and set the crockery back onto the table.

* * *

          " Stepping into the hallway of the second floor after a thorough look about, I became curious about the third floor. The police had run a cursory search up there. The third floor had two bedrooms which at one-time housed servants but was now empty. Standing in the doorway of one I lean against the door and encounter a resistance to it hitting the wall. Looking behind I pick up a green jumper lying on the floor. The smell of flowers assails me coming off the jumper. A florist or someone who worked in a florist shop."  
Stopping to take up the cup of tea, I lean back, cup and saucer still in hand.

* * *

          "Well, what happened?" leaning forward he brushes his trousers, puts his hands on his knees, now anxious to hear the rest.  
          "William Hopewell had flowers delivered to his house once a week, he told me. Rebecca loved flowers, and he made it a habit to keep the house alive with them. He had taken Rebecca in after her long and horrific divorce in which she lost her house."

* * *

          " Was the ex the one who killed her?"

* * *

          "No," getting up, placing my cup and saucer in the kitchen sink and after going to the loo, settling myself back down.  
          "The police checked that out, and the ex-husband had a solid excuse. He was in Amsterdam at the time."

* * *

Restless I walk around the room, "I needed to see the florist. His name was Karl Weiner. I obtained the address and called on him, asking to see his wardrobe, and of course, he was puzzled by my request."  
          "Let me guess. The jumper belonged to him. But how did you deduce that."  
          "Ah, how wonderfully your mind works," praise never hurt as I see John's face light up, his beautiful blue eyes sparkle.  
          "The deduction was simple. His apparel was mainly the same as yours. Of course, I had not met you yet. He wore jumpers to his shop and had a goodly collection of them."

* * *

Sitting again," When I asked what he was doing at the house of William Hopewell that one night he blanched. He advanced toward me. I thought to attack me, but his attack was to kiss me briefly and move away and wait for a response from me."  
          "How did he know you would be amiable to that?"  
I, knowing my John, recognized he would ask that question.  
          "It was in his look, the stare of the eyes, the way he arched his body toward me the whole time I was in his presence. He knew or thought he knew I would be receptive to his advances. His smirk was unmistakable."  
Standing, leaning over the back of Johns chair, having him turn to look up at me, I'm within inches of his lips, looking at them as I resume.

* * *

          "I curved myself to him, giving him the permission he wanted. We had sex on his recliner chair," my hand brushing John's shoulder and hearing his breath catch, "laying it back." Stepping away, John has been taking deep breaths all this while.  
          "All night on that recliner," making sure he understood.

* * *

          "Why? Why not call the police right away. Why have--have sex with him?"  
          "To get his full confession involved his emotions be in turmoil. And it worked. Early in the morning, I called Lestrade. The man had it all written on paper before Greg had stepped in the door. That was the conclusion of the salesman tale."  
          "So, to get this straight, he owned the florist's shop and sold Hopewell flowers. But why kill the sister?"  
          "He was her lover and tried to extort money. When she threatened to tell her brother, he did the deed."

* * *

Facing him with my eyes lidded, a smug look on my face," People will blurt out everything when in the throes of sexual pleasure. Anything."

* * *

With my story at an end, it is now late in the evening I briskly leave the parlor, knowing John would not be going anyplace tonight. He would be sleeping in his bed, and my imagination would weave a story of him stepping into my room, asking what it was like to make love in a bed instead of a recliner.

* * *

==========================================================

He left the room just like that. He left me sitting in my chair, my mind so befuddled I don't, no can't sit with the fellows in the pub. It's very late now anyway.

That's all I would be thinking about is his tale. His sexual encounter. In his mind, it's a waste of time and energy.  
I know him. He didn't need to do it.  
And on a recliner no less.

* * *

I have gotten several texts from my buddies during that whole time while listening to the detective.

Taking my mobile out, I text back I'm tired and can't come tonight.  
In bed, my mind goes to Sherlock lying on a recliner, his curly hair spread out, his legs wide, displaying, lanky body bare.

* * *

I try to do the necessary to wipe that memory out of my mind.

* * *

=============================================================

The quiet around the flat has to do with John. He doesn't speak unless needed.

* * *

John loves typically to be sitting in his chair, eyes closed as I play a tune on the violin. Now he walks restlessly around the room, or takes up a newspaper to read.

I continue to run scenarios through my head, various versions of articulating my strong affection in a way that John would accept.

* * *

His new way of communicating with me is to avoid my eyes, talk into space, not at me.

* * *

Inspector Lestrade calls, and we have a robbery case to explore.  
I'm glad. It will loosen the tension in the flat.

* * *

Solving the case was no problem. 

John stares out the window of our taxi as we ride home, his body as close to the door as he can get, and as far from me as he can get.

* * *

===================================================================

While at the police station, I notice something I've missed all along. Greg always touches Sherlock on his arm and back, and Sherlock welcomes the physical touch.  
He avoids my touch, cringing when I do the same thing. Why?

* * *

          "John, are you doing okay? You seem lost in la-la land", Greg looks concerned.  
          "I've got a terrible headache. Don't know what from."  
Have they been intimate? Greg and Sherlock?

Jealousy rages through me. I lose most of the specifics of the case and have to excuse it to my head hurting.

Greg opens a drawer of his desk and hands me paracetamol. I take it with the glass of water Sherlock gives to me.

* * *

Sherlock leaves, hating the ordeal of paperwork, while I stay on with Greg, glancing at him sideways.  
          "Have I got food on my face or something like that," wiping at his mouth.  
          "No, sorry," to dip my head down to look at the writing on a piece of paper.  
          "Is everything okay with you and Sherlock? There's been a silence I can't put my finger on."  
          " No, Greg. It's okay. I guess it's just me and this damn headache. Not used to getting things like this."  
A good excuse, I feel.

* * *

          _join me for coffee at the big ben cafe when finished SH_  
          _can do. leaving now_  
I reply to his text.

* * *

The weather is too chilly to sit outside, and Sherlock has procured a table indoors by the window.

* * *

We've ordered. I don't know what to say to Sherlock. Then a voice booms out," John, Captain John Watson, wow!"  
Heavier than when we were when together in the army, Jackson Wallace bounces over to our table.  
I introduce Sherlock, and he gives his usual grimace.  
          "Hey if you two--?"  
          " No, sit. Sit. Tell me where you've been and what you've been doing since we last saw one another."  
Jackson, always a ready talker launches into his history occasionally asking questions of me. I can tell the Sherlock sulk when ignored but ignore him back to continue chatting with Jackson.

* * *

Jackson tries to include the man by asking questions, but Sherlock answers with one or two words, and he soon gives up.

* * *

After Jackson says his goodbyes, Sherlock harumphs, sits up straight, "Did I ever tell you I was in Saudi Arabia with Mycroft?"  
I raise my eyebrows, "no that's news to me. When was this?"

Leaning back in the chair, taking off his leather gloves he gestures to the waiter for more tea.

* * *

==========================================

          "After my graduating university, Mycroft had to go to Saudi Arabia for government business and asked me to join him. I was, as you can imagine, both thrilled and uneasy about it. Mycroft being all business. What was I to do there? The first day I took to the streets and inspected the markets and opium joints."  
John gives me one of his eyebrow furrowed, lips pursed looks.

* * *

Clearing my throat and choosing not to have witnessed his outward censorship I move on.

* * *

          " My brother had arranged for us to meet one of the sheiks and to join him in his grandfather's tent. We were riding in on camels, even though a ride in a car would put us twenty minutes from the area. Mycroft's face after the hour was a joy to see. His nose covered the whole time, his eyes squinted. I, on the other hand, enjoyed my ride. The grandfather's tent was in the center of three others, his being the largest and most colorful. Flags flew from the tentpoles, furs dangled from others. Inside we were first introduced to the eldest son. In turn, eldest son brought us to the emir who was situated on many mats, cross-legged. He looked to be in his eighties, did not stand, nodded his head towards us. Not speaking English the son made the interpretations for Mycroft and me. Mycroft told me I could go outside since I would be bored by their conversation. The eldest son, whose name is irrelevant walked me out of the tent, and I began meeting many of the other sons and grandsons, so many I could not remember all their names." 

* * *

I have to stretch my legs, walking around the room as I'm telling John this tale. I can watch his body movements, his head twisting, his torso following so not to miss a word.

* * *

          "One grandson, in particular, took me by surprise. Light skin, dark brown hair, and eyes. He caught my look, took both my hands in his, proceeded to tell me his name is Nabil. Offering me a cigarette we moved away from the tent. 'I know,' he said, 'everyone asks. My mother was British.' It seemed as if we had known each other at one time; the connection was that strong."  
John's caustic laugh giving his thoughts away.

* * *

          "The dinner was sumptuous and long. Nabil helped me over the discussion of politics and business by discussing the books we have read. I thought he would be staying in one of the tents, but instead, he was residing at the Hotel Desertaria."

          "Let's take a taxi, and go home, and I'll finish this in the comfort of our parlor," standing without waiting for his okay I signal a cab.

* * *

Once home he gets out of his coat and moves towards his room.

          "I haven't finished."  
          "Oh yes, you have. You wound up with this Nabil at his hotel and spent the night--."  
          "There's more to it than that John. Sit and listen to me."

* * *

Relectantly, sluggishly, John sits, legs apart, arms ready to push up and leave.

* * *

          "After the dinner, we did not want to stay and partake of dessert and more bickering over business deals. Mycroft spotted us moving toward the door and pushed through the people to ask why I was leaving, and with him, of all the sons. 'He isn't your best choice of companion.' I refused to listen to any of his spoutings, walked out to join Nabil in his car. He was extremely personable, and when asked to spend time having a drink or two at his hotel I accepted. My hotel was across the street from his so a few drinks would be good. A short walk to my hotel if I was tipsy. Which was very convenient." 

* * *

          " You were a drinker in those days besides the drugs."  
My head dips in acknowledgement.

* * *

          "And then you went up to his room--."  
          " You jump to conclusions. Wrongly. After the first drink, I was ready to go to my hotel. My body was achy from the camel ride. I slide out of the booth, saying my goodbyes to Nabil when a hand grips my shoulder, 'Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare go anyplace yet.'" It was an old university friend, Michael Hargrave. I had no choice but to sit back down and introduce Nabil to him. The three of us sat back and chatted for a while. Michael left, and I was about to when Nabil asked me to stay for one more drink. He could arrange for two women to join us in his suite. It had two bedrooms. I declined, of course, saying I was not interested."

          "Do you expect me to believe that it ended like that?"

* * *

Sitting in the chair by the desk I give a quick grin, "you're right. Nabil and I finished our drinks; we said goodnight and I walked out of the hotel. Before crossing the street, Nabil runs out, takes my arm and says" don't be upset with me but would a man suffice? "  
          "You spent the night with him?" wiping his face with his hand and into his hair.  
          "Three to be exact."

* * *

John's eyes widen, his legs uncross, and he leans forward, hands on his knees, "You bugger, you! "  
          "I learned more from him in those three days and nights. He had the book Kama Sutra and--"  
          "Oh god, stop! What about Mycroft,"  
          "He never knew. I called the hotel and left a message that I was sightseeing. It was an amazing--."  
Jumping up from his seat, he steps toward me, stops, and runs to his room.

* * *

I sat longer to examine my experiment. John was undoubtedly jealous and angry. How far before he confesses his true feelings.

* * *

======================================

Couldn't hear anymore! I know that book, and if they went through it, then Sherlock is quite well versed in sex.  
I'm losing patience with him more and more.

* * *

I begin working late at the clinic, seeing the guys in the evening or staying in my room with my laptop and watching movies.  
I keep seeing images of him in different positions, playing it out to the end. Always with me either watching him or being in the center of it.

* * *

============================================================

A well-known detective, Roger Edwards has been killed in New York City, and Sherlock and I have been asked to attend. We knew him from his frequent trips to London.  
I beg off, for two reasons. One is I don't feel like being around Sherlock that much and the other is for the clinic. I can't find a substitute doctor.

* * *

Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan are flying over with Sherlock and will stay for two nights.

* * *

I hear nothing from Sherlock, but Greg calls me," Sherlock made friends with the cousin of the dead man. He asked him to help sort out the estate. No one else there to help. Not sure when he'll be back. He said he'd text with the news."  
A profound sigh escapes me, "thanks for the call. I'll see you Thursday night for drinks."

* * *

Two weeks and not a sound from Sherlock. No call, no text.

* * *

I avoid meeting the men at the pub stating my working late as the reason.

* * *

I've stepped out of the taxi one evening and notice through the window there is a light on in the parlor. I left no such light shining. I draw my gun from my trouser pocket and stealthily walk up the stairs, skipping the one that creaks.  
          "Not to worry, John it's me. I'm home," I hear his deep voice yell, and my revolver goes back into the pocket.  
Hanging up my jacket, "Did everything go as well as expected while over there," trying my best to keep my voice even.  
          "Yes. You must be tired this late. I've made you tea, and there are biscuits for you."  
Wiping my face, "I'll take the tea into my room, and I'm taking a quick shower and then to bed. I will be home tomorrow until the evening."  
          "Good. Get a good night's rest. See you in the morning."

* * *

As tired as I was sleep would not come easy, and I wake up quite early. I'll get up now, face the man and then off to work.

* * *

Nodding my good morning to him, I stop short in my tracks.  
          "Did you cook?"  
          "Don't act so surprised. I can do that perfectly well if I want to. Let's sit at the table. I have to report what transpired during this latest venture."  
Oh no! Here comes another one. Should I tell him to fuck off? I so want to but listening to his voice, to hear how men flock to him I can't resist.

* * *

==============================================

          "Before the funeral began we were introduced to the cousin Harry Schroeder. Harry was raised by Mister Cromwell, the now deceased, and lived with him a significant portion of his life in a townhouse in Brooklyn. Harry, a very solemn man, is given to smoking regularly. Everyone else was milling about, and I could see that Harry was hiding in a corner. He didn't want to discuss anything about his uncle. As the executor of the will, he had to sort everything out. Living now in Connecticut Harry had taken a hotel in Brooklyn so as not to travel between states. Harry asked me to stay by him during the ceremony. As the procession made it's way to the grave, Harry was sobbing heavily and found me the nearest person to lean on. I don't know what possessed me, but I closed him in my arms."

* * *

I stop the toast going into my mouth to look at him. Here we go again.

          "Don't look shocked John. I did touch him, and his reaction was as mine would have been. He shook me off.

* * *

          "The body in the ground, with everyone surrounding him, Harry grabs my arm, explaining to those within earshot that we, notice I said we, have an appointment to meet with somebody.

* * *

It was a sham. We wound up in a pub; it was a trying time to keep Harry from getting too intoxicated. In the taxi, he leaned in to kiss me. Just a small touch of the lips. 'No,' he says, 'I'm not gay. Don't know what possessed me.' He was intoxicated, but I knew he leaned more towards men.  
          "I know what possessed him. You!," pointing my finger at him.  
          " Believe me, my friend, I did nothing to inspire him to that deed. After dropping him off, I found my way to my hotel."  
          "That twist of the head, the look. You said it all the last time, remember? All to get your way. To have the last word. Or should I say the last fuck."

* * *

It's clear that John is worked up.

* * *

          "The next morning there's a knock at my door. I open it to discover a hung-over Harry. He wanted me to stay longer to work with him on his uncle's possessions at the Brooklyn house. I would be more impartial than the relative. Since there were no cases on the horizon, I informed Greg."

* * *

          "And you never thought to inform me, you prick."

* * *

          " The house was on a tree-lined street. All very suburbia. Sorting out papers in drawers, putting clothes in plastic bags to donate. He didn't want to stay overnight in the house, and that's why the hotel. We took a taxi that evening with the intent of eating dinner together. While riding, Harry took my hand, squeezing it in gratitude. His eyes locked with mine. I sensed a need and let him express it with a small touch of his lips to mine. He backed away stating he was not gay. It was on an impulse, a whim."

* * *

          "I can imagine it is a whim. The whim being you. You said it before, and I quote you, 'it was in his look, the stare of the eyes, the way he arched his body toward the other person. Did all that didn't you?"  
          "Trust me, John. I maintained a distance from him."  
Snorting loudly, "Yea, right."

* * *

I can't help see the familiarity between Harry and myself. I have always maintained I'm not gay. Not interested in a man's touch. But drawn to the idea of it. Especially with Sherlock.

* * *

          "I suspected Harry of being bisexual but unable to come to terms with his feelings towards men." Again the odd feeling pops up. Am I bisexual? But I've never been inclined towards men, any men--except Sherlock.

* * *

          "Harry and I worked tirelessly for two weeks and came home to England. I assume he went back to Connecticut. I haven't heard from him since."

* * *

After John leaves for work, I call Greg to find out if we have any cases, large or small. We have none. I spend the afternoon perusing the news and watching telly. Nothing worthwhile.

* * *

===================================================

I'm exhausted! All I can think about is Sherlock! Sherlock and more Sherlock!

          _Must meet with you tonight. At usual pub. seat in corner._

          _John whatever is wrong. I will be there at 6 if thats good._

          _Six is good_

* * *

Taking my coat off and draping it over the chair Greg already has a beer for me.

          "Out with it, John Watson. Even in this light, I can tell you look like shit.  
A large drink of the brew and a swipe of my hand over my eyes I blurt it out, "I'm moving out of Baker Street."  
Pushing the pint away from me, he states," I'm not going to interrupt. Tell me all."

          "Sherlock has been regaling me with stories of his sexual prowess and to be honest with you--," Greg's hand goes over mine, "wait, wait what do you mean by that?"  
          "He's told me about the trip to Saudi Arabia--,"  
          "Stop again. I've known Sherlock Holmes since he got out of university. That man has never been out of the country until a few years ago. Much lest Saudi."

* * *

I stop and think about that. What is Greg saying?

          "He told me about Nabil and the Kama Sutra and the sex they had."  
          "Oh, you stupid, stupid idiot. Wait! No, both of you are fucking meatheads," taking a deep breath.

* * *

          " And then the two weeks he spent in New York with Harry Schroeder?"  
Greg is looking at me with an expression of disbelief and shakes his head. 

          "Sherlock came home on the same plane as Sally and I. He went to his mother's house to stay with her for two weeks. He never told you that?" 

          "No he implied that he was staying with Harry to help out, but there was more to it."  
          "And neither of you called or text each other?"  
I shake my head no. Now beginning to feel like a fool.  


          "Look at me you--. Sherlock is deeply in love with you as you are with him. The two of you have been dancing around this for years."  
          "There was another story about--,"  
          "He's trying to get you jealous. Which you are, let's face it. He wants you to know he's been with other men. And it is other men he's talking about screwing, isn't it?"  
It's like the cartoon light bulb moment for me.

* * *

Greg leans back in his seat and pushes the glass over to me. I take a good swig of the beer.  
          "He's telling me it's okay. Okay, for him to love me even if I'm a man. That's it isn't it. That I've been a complete and utter dumbass."

Pounding his fist on the table he snaps at me, "Both of you have been idiots. He's been waiting for you to say you love him. Good god, John! We all thought you two were lovers when you first met. I would tell you to get your ass over to Baker Street and get down on your knees and tell him. And then while on your knees--,"  
At that we both laugh.

* * *

I slide off the chair, put my coat on, and with a quick thank you to my friend find myself climbing the steps of 221 Baker Street as fast as my feet and heart will take me.

* * *


End file.
